Jay's PoV
The rain followed me home.
Not literally, obviously. But the moment I stepped inside my apartment — the one place that used to feel like a sanctuary — it was like the storm outside crawled up the walls and settled over everything.
I didn't turn the lights on. I didn't need to. Darkness felt easier. Less dishonest.
My wet hoodie clung to my skin as I kicked the door shut with my heel. My hands were still shaking, though the shaking had changed. Back there, in his living room, it had been anger. Now it was something heavier. Something stupidly close to grief.
I dropped my keys somewhere — maybe on the counter, maybe on the floor — and headed straight for the bathroom. I needed a moment. A minute. A lifetime.
The mirror didn't help.
My cheeks were blotched, my eyes red in that way you can never fully hide, no matter how much you try to pretend you're fine. My mouth looked like I'd spent the last ten minutes biting words back so hard they bruised.
Maybe I had.
I should've left sooner. I should've said less. Or more. Or—
God. I didn't know anymore.
I turned on the shower, not even waiting for it to warm up before stepping under the spray. The cold hit me like a slap, startling enough to yank a breath from my chest. It poured over me, harsh, relentless, rinsing out the last of his scent on my clothes, but not the part of him lodged under my ribs.
I kept replaying it.
Her hand — Freya's hand — on his arm. Casual, familiar, like she had every right.
And then the worst part: the look on his face. The confusion. The softness. The way he didn't pull back fast enough.
He'd kissed me like I mattered. Like I was something he chose.
But then… that.
By the time the water went warm, my anger had thinned out into exhaustion. I shut the shower off, wrapped myself in a towel, and sank onto the cold tile floor, drawing my knees to my chest.
I should move on, shouldn't I? That's what people do when something hurts. They walk away, pretend it didn't matter, find someone better.
But I wasn't sure "better" existed.
Not after him.
My phone buzzed somewhere in the apartment — a distant vibration, muffled. I didn't move. I couldn't. Let it ring. Let it stop. Let him try, or don't try. Right now the idea of hearing his voice felt like placing my hand on a fresh bruise and pressing down.
Eventually I hauled myself up and padded into the bedroom, hair dripping, towel still around me. The phone was facedown on the bedspread, lit up with a notification before dimming out again.
One message. Unsent. The preview said: Keifer is typing…
I stared at that for a long minute.
He was trying. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just caught between guilt and instinct, between wanting to fix what he broke and not knowing how.
I dropped the phone beside me and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
There was a moment — a stupid, fragile one — where I wondered what he'd do tomorrow. Whether he'd actually come find me. Whether I'd even let him get close enough to talk.
I hated that a part of me hoped he would.
My apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. I tried turning on some music, but everything sounded like him.
I tried making tea, but the kettle hissed like the echo of my own temper. I tried breathing deep, slow, steady — but every inhale caught on the thought that he'd chosen someone else in the split second that mattered.
Sometime past midnight, I crawled into bed but didn't sleep. The rain pounded harder outside, relentless, like it was knocking on every window in the city trying to remind me of something I wasn't ready to remember.
I curled into the pillow, pulled the blanket over my head, and whispered into the dark,
"I hope you know what you're doing, Keifer."
Because I had no idea what I was doing.
And tomorrow…
Tomorrow felt like a cliff edge I wasn't sure I wanted to look over — but couldn't stop walking toward anyway.